


The Spirit of Freedom

by bravevesperian



Series: Tales of the Wind [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Balthier - Freeform, Gen, M/M, Past Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:36:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27694241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravevesperian/pseuds/bravevesperian
Summary: Ffamran Bunansa has reached a breaking point. He cannot abide the Empire. Least of all, he cannot abide his father.
Series: Tales of the Wind [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2025338
Kudos: 3





	The Spirit of Freedom

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little ficlet I've sat on for years, exploring Ffamran's feelings as he made his plans to flee Archades-- and his first meeting with Fran. 
> 
> There's a tiny hint of future Balvaan if you squint. I really like to remind everyone that Balthier's still very young though he tries not to act it, and see Fran as a bit of a mother figure to him as well as his sworn partner in arms. She's twice his age and he was a baby when he ran away. I love the romantic ship too just fine, but I think the idea that she likely did a lot of taking care of him at first is really appealing. There's plenty of introspection on the romantic ship, I'd like to look at a different facet.

The plans of months had nearly fallen apart when Ffamran found that he had a message from his father left for him on his desk in the study. He wanted to have dinner, evidently—probably after the outburst he'd had some days ago about how he couldn't get him to have a conversation with him. It was too little too late. Cid was only trying to placate him and it would avail nothing. 

What did the old coot want to talk about anyway? He'd begun to blather on in incomprehensible phrases about things that Ffamran didn't and couldn't understand. Something was wrong with him. The father he knew never would've backed the Empire's most recent moves. The father he knew, was all but gone. He'd already steeled his young heart to this. 

Now that the day he had chosen was upon him, the young judge found himself racked with fear. He had few friends in Archades. He was all bite and venom with them. Even the few acquaintances he'd made on the outside were only interested in him as far as what he could do for them, and how could he blame them? This place, the people running it—they were all mad men. There was no saving it. Every day, the place felt more and more like a prison. Late at night, he thought he could feel the walls of his chambers closing in around him, a garrot tightening around his throat. He was a Judge: he had power and he had fame and the wit to continue a meteoric rise to fame. 

He didn't want it. The Empire and all it had come to stand for turned his stomach. He wanted to shed his skin, as if that might let him shed his name too. The thought—that was it—! Had struck him some time ago. He would do just that. The Empire was unsalvageable. 

His own mind too; unsalvageable. His father would never forgive him. He'd be so hurt, even if it took him time to notice. The guilt was making him short of breath, his chest all but caving in at the thought. His art of manipulation was the only thing that kept him from giving it all away: though he was sure he could've dropped his mask all at once and the deluded bastard still wouldn't have noticed at all. 

That thought rekindled his rage. Down below, sons went off to seek their fortune all of the time: he would merely be another out of many. Ffamran Bunansa was no play mate for young Larsa, no custodian to clean up the messes after Vayne's rages. He was sick of fratricide and false faces. 

Ffamran had spent weeks reading up on survival skills, memorizing what he could about plants and their uses. He would live with his gun at his side, or he would die—the flight would make the choice for him. 

He'd made his way through his father's mansion two days ago, taking whatever precious metal he could find before stealing out into the glittering streets of Tsenoble to fence whatever anyone would pay for. It was enough to dwarf the salary of most common folk; maybe enough to get him a basic ship once he was clear of Imperial control. Enough to keep him going for a while. The truth was, at seventeen he hardly knew the value of a gil outside of those walls. He was brilliant but as of yet uncultured. The only sense of worldly knowledge he had was found in the books in his room. 

As night fell Ffamran, Son of Cidolfus, paced the length of his apartments. There would be no strained dinner, no more hiding. 

Those same books, full of information that he's catalogued as best he could, stared at him as he paced. They'd have to be left behind. Same with most of the trinkets he was fond of. It would all be gone. There was a bag stuffed into his wardrobe full of clothes that would pass for common enough. Enough. He'd be thinking with that a lot from now on. From now on, he would have to be satisfied with enough. With survival. 

The mood he'd fallen into was a bitter kind of resignation. He'd not wanted to do this. His life could be comfortable—much more comfortable than those sleeping on straw mats in old Archades. Was he being ungrateful in throwing it away? The only thing he knew was that he didn't want this (whatever it was) for himself. The full suit of armor he was being fitted for stared at him from the corner of the room, soulless black eyes and curled horns that were as impersonal as they were inhuman. He scowled at it and turned to kick the leg with a sharp rattle that seemed to echo in the room. 

There was one book that he was planning to ferret away into his bag. It was small and bound richly to stand the pass of time. It told tails of a heroic adventurer and an old, forgotten spirit or deity that travelled the skies freely without a care. It was an obscure children's book, but it had been his one hope: the saga of a spritely young hero and his beloved windborne spirit called Balthier. It was perhaps, a name from the oldest of Archadian tongues. The modern language spoken was nearly something else entirely. Though it came from this same land, it felt foreign and rich on the back of his tongue though he had dared not yet speak it aloud. 

Balthier: All that he wished to be. The very breath of freedom, embodiment of the unbridled indulgence of soaring on the wind as being one with it. To traverse the skies unhindered as though one with it. He'd closed his eyes, a deep breath passing his lips before he drew himself up and squared his shoulders. 

Soon. 

He would make his way on his own. —That thought played over in his head again and again. It was his mantra, his only peace as he took a book from the shelf and leafed through it one last time. Then, with resolution, he stuffed it into his bag. 

_Balthier._

Again, he fought the faltering of his heart. His eyes graced the brocaded bed trimmings, the rich and ornate history of the heirloom furniture in the room. Even his desk had a history—but it wasn't his, was it? Ffamran drifted to the plush armchair by the empty fireplace, his fingertips running along the curve of its back. He sat down and sank into it: a farewell to one small sanctuary. The doubt fled as soon as it came. He was of age now, and surely soon the court would be getting around to pressuring his father to find him a wife he didn't want. Gods spare him—anything but that. The very thought of it churned his stomach. How things were now, he was sure Cidolfus would agree to nearly any alliance just to get the other party to leave him be. 

With that, he reminded himself firmly that he had no place in this world. Not with the rich men who couldn't see the reality of their lessers or a woman that he could never love. It was a simple, cruel kind of vengeance. He could manipulate girls into giving him what he wanted— then turn away when they pushed further than he liked. Every heart he broke reminded him of what he thought he might never have: the kind of companionship that he truly craved. The kind of love that could never produce the heirs demanded of him, unfortunately. 

Finally, he lifted himself from the armchair, and approached the mirror that stood against the wall beside his desk. Several missives he'd ignored remained unsigned there, and from the surface he lifted a pair of steel and gold gilded sheers. 

Ffamran looked at himself in the mirror, unmoving. He felt as though he barely knew the face looking back out at him. His eyes were undershadowed by bruises from sleepless nights and his own fretting, making their hazel green seem to burn in the low light of his room. Framing features still finding themselves amongst his baby face were the long, straight locks that brushed his shoulders: the style was popular in Archades, sported by Vayne Solidor and his brothers and even the Emperor himself. But Ffamran was ready to disappear. 

Setting his jaw, Ffamran took a handful of his hair and pulled it up, straight above his head—and began to cut through it with abandon. Usually so facitous and picky about his appearance, there was something both terrifying and thrilling to watch it all fall away in moments. The cut was messy and honestly terrible to look at. A little dirt on his face and he'd fit right in with the people of Old Archades. It was perfect. He grinned at the messy reflection in the mirror and found that he liked what he saw. 

He dropped the shears like they were so much refuse among the pile of his once lovely sandy hair and turned from the mirror, ignoring the subsequent itchign as he wandered back into the center of the room. 

Another methodical check: everything in its place in his pack. He pulled his traveling cloak on. It was not one of the many that had been tailored and sewn for him. He'd bought it himself out in the city to keep him warm, and to keep him anonymous. 

He would become the man who stole from these bastards and their banquets, the man who walked the line between good and evil, light and dark. Yes—Balthier, the sky spirit: The Sky Pirate. A word that stood out on the page in an antiquated tome that probably had never seen the light of day outside of these musty halls. He would see that it saw the very corners of the world in his possession. 

With his hood up, he left the way he always did—to sneak out into the pubs and mingle with the common folk. But this time he did not stop. He climbed to the aerodome and let himself in with a tool manual tucked into his pocket, the weight of his bag weighing him down more than he expected. 

That grin that had found his face in the mirror's reflection had settled into a smirk, and it hadn't left him since he'd walked away. If anything, it felt lighter and lighter. 

It was twenty minutes later that he'd managed to follow the instructions and helped himself to the first ship that looked like it had any power to it at all—most of the Imperial pleasure cruisers were all design and no capability. And he wanted it all. He had to climb the outside of the control tower to force the parking clamps—and though the engineer ran to stop him at the last moment, by the time the glossair rings whirred to life he was in the cockpit and rocketing into the distance. His first real big steal. As far as Ffamran—ah no, Balthier—was concerned, he'd make his way to Balfonheim. Everyone there was a pirate or ne'er-do well, right? They'd re-outfit this bird and she'd be free of her Imperial colors in no time. Probably. 

Balthier tore through the skies, clouds parting the way for him as he minded carefully his maps. He had to be both navigator and pilot: it was proving a bit more difficult than he'd imagine, but his determination was powerful. Only when he was sure that he was far enoug away to be all but out of the reach of the Empire, or at least out from under its nose, he pulled the throttle and began to ease into a landing. He'd never landed before, but surely it wasn't so different from the manual. 

He thought this even as his stomach lurched and the lift gave out too soon and he and his stolen ship plummeted just too far too fast to be right— 

The world turned and spun, and when he awoke he lay against cracked glass upon sand. 

For days, he hid among the rocks of the shore. The ship wasn't totaled exactly, but there was no way he was going to be able to flip the damnable thing back upright on his own. He'd nearly decided to give it up for lost. This was the shore somewhere near where he'd been aiming: for Balfonheim. Maybe if he just started walking... 

He was contemplating this when when he was happened upon by a strange woman the likes of which he'd never seen in person. Everyone knew what a Viera was, of course: but they were rare in cities. Really, he thought some wild place like this was the most likely place to see one. She stood alone and tall, bow slung on her back as she smelled the air and looked down at him. 

"You've met some misfortune, Hume-child." She said flatly. 

"That is how it seems, mm?" He answered with a hint of sarcasm. Wasn't it obvious? 

To his surprise, her eyes seemed to smile as she shifted her weight. "Do you stay for the storm? Or do you make for the port of thieves?" 

"What storm?" Balthier asked, wrinkling his nose and lifting his head to follow her gaze. It didn't seem like stormy weather. Then as if on cue a peel of distant thunder could be heard. He frowned. 

"That one, of course." This time she really did give a cheeky grin in response. 

"Are you out here to sit in the storm?" Balthier asked, tossing the broken stick he'd been holding into his pitiful little fire. 

"I saw smoke on my hunt. Where there is smoke there is fire. But the fire won't last long in that. Come, Hume-child. I'll take you to Balfonheim." 

"Not Hume-child." He groused. She raised her brows, the subtle expression of amusement silent for a moment. 

"No? Then what should I call you?" 

"I'm..." He paused, caught his breath. Corrected himself. "Balthier." 

"Fran. Come then, little Balthier." A beat as she seemed to read the conflict on his face. "We shall come back for the wreck later. She'll need some work." 

At that, he all but jumped to his feet and nodded, retrieving his pack quickly. 

"I can help you hunt!" He offered. 

"Oh?" She asked as he followed on her heels. "We shall see, then." 

Balthier followed in her footsteps in the sand, headed for the distant city down the sweeping coast. The storm rumbled closer, but he didn't feel even an ounce of fear. The sky would open, and it would open again and again in a hundred different ways. Balthier would be ready for it.


End file.
